


Red Haze

by October_rust



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Enemy Mine - Freeform, M/M, Sexual Tension, dub-con kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:14:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22945351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/October_rust/pseuds/October_rust
Summary: Roche has to take care of a drugged Iorveth.
Relationships: Iorveth/Vernon Roche
Comments: 17
Kudos: 173





	Red Haze

“Damn it all, elf, hold still!”

There are strong hands on his shoulders, pushing him down onto a … soft mattress? Iorveth frowns, but it's impossible to concentrate. One moment, he's back in Drakenborg, stretched on a torture rack, awaiting yet another round of excruciating agony. And then, when he's about to struggle and curse, the damp prison cell disappears, and he finds himself lying on a bed in a small room. An inn in Novigrad – but how …?

“The antidote is going to start working any time now. Just don't fall asleep.” 

Roche's face swims into focus above him. The dark eyes that Iorveth remembers all too well are narrowed in concern. 

Roche.

Bloede dh'oine.

“Bloede dh'oine who is saving your sorry arse,” Roche says, and presses a cup to Iorveth's lips. The water is blessedly cool; Iorveth gulps it down without protest, almost moaning at how wonderful it tastes on his parched tongue.

“What did you even do to piss off that crazy alchemist?”

The alchemist. The word stirs bits and pieces of a hazy memory: the man in a dirty robe forcing Iorveth to drink some vile-smelling concoction, the manacles weighing down Iorveth's wrists, the array of knives and scalpels glinting on a nearby table. “You're going to feel everything, my dear,” the man promised. “And before I'm done with you, you're going to wish the witch hunters had found you first. Sweet dreams.”

“Killed his brother,” Iorveth rasps. “Or father. Or great-great-uncle. Don't really know. I killed lots of dh'oine. Or maybe there was no reason and he just wanted to have some fun.” 

“As good a reason as any, I guess,” says Roche, but his jaw clenches in obvious disgust. The alchemist's lair must have been too much even for him. “You owe me, elf.”

“Do I? Always so mercenary, you dh'oine.” His eyelid droops to half-mast. It's an effort to keep it open; still, he doesn't want to stop looking at Roche. Everything is blurry, shimmering around the edges, yet Roche's face, with its harsh planes and angles, remains solid and constant amid the encroaching chaos.

It would be so easy to kill him in this position, Iorveth thinks lazily, watching Roche from beneath lowered eyelashes. The dh'oine's guard is down, his throat exposed. A sheen of sweat glistens along the tendons in Roche's neck, drawing Iorveth's gaze.

Were they still in Temeria, still locked in their game of cat and mouse … 

“Elf? Still with me?” Roche furrows his brow, then brings his hand to Iorveth's forehead. “Doesn't seem like the fever is going up.”

“Good,” Iorveth whispers. The touch sends sparks down his spine. They spread in prickling waves, raising goosebumps on his arms and quickening his pulse. Heat kindles in the pit of his stomach, urgent and overwhelming.

Roche. 

Roche, the ever-present thorn in his side.

“As soon as this shit wears off,” Roche says, and his voice reaches Iorveth as if through a thick fog. “I'm taking you to Reuven. He's very eager to talk to you. And I'm tired of playing bloody nursemaid to a --”

The rest of Roche's grumbling gets lost in a surprised grunt, as Iorveth grabs at those broad shoulders and yanks Roche down. Then, it's only a matter of another deft twist, another quick pull, and Roche ends up flat on his back, trapped underneath Iorveth. 

Right where Iorveth wants him.

“The hell did you do that for?” Roche asks. His eyes stare up at Iorveth, wide and stunned. 

Why indeed? Iorveth cannot explain, not when blood is roaring in his ears, and his whole body is coiled like a tightly drawn bowstring. He bends over Roche, drags his teeth over the throbbing jugular in Roche's neck.

“You're getting sloppy,” he murmurs. “Far too careless. I'm not your friend, dh'oine.”

“And I'm not yours, you daft bastard.” The words vibrate beneath Iorveth's lips, and Iorveth can almost taste every rumbling sound. He smiles at the barely audible tremor to Roche's voice. “But we're allies now. We're supposed not to murder each other.”

“Mhm.” Iorveth licks the underside of Roche's jaw. “So we are.”

The stubble stings his mouth, rough and unfamiliar. By all rights, he should find it repulsive – after all, it's yet another reminder of how crude and beastly all dh'oine are – but the salty abrasiveness of Roche's skin is strangely addictive. Just enough of an annoyance to frustrate, to make him bite down on that arched neck and earn a pained hiss in return. 

“You reek like an animal,” he mocks, even he trails his mouth up, to Roche's cheek. He lets go of one the wrists he's pinning down, grips the folds of the chaperon and tugs it off. His fingers sink into Roche's hair, soft and thick, and slightly damp with sweat. 

“Elf,” Roche grits out, and his breath puffs against Iorveth's lips. “Iorveth. It's the drug. You don't know what you're --”

Perhaps it's his name said in Roche's low voice, perhaps it's the hint of desperation and pleading, but all at once it's too much. Crimson blots his vision; the hunger claws at his insides with such a maddening intensity that Iorveth almost cries out in agony.

So he gives in: he leans down those last scant inches and covers Roche's mouth with his own.

Copper and iron flood his senses. Images whirl in his head – Roche, twisting at the hips to land a deadly blow, the blade cutting through the air in a blur. How many times has Iorveth watched him during various skirmishes, memorizing the way he moved, appraising the hard lines of his body and the raw power in every ruthless swing of his long sword? Far too many, far too often. 

It's another battle now, as their lips and teeth clash, drawing more blood. Fierce, messy, undignified. But Iorveth revels in it all the same. Roche's chest is straining against his, the frantic beating of Roche's heart a mirror to his own, while he pushes and prods with his tongue in a filthy, almost obscene rhythm. 

Dh'oine, dh'oine … 

He wedges his knee between Roche's legs, rubs it slowly and deliberately against Roche's hardening cock. Swallows Roche's muffled curse, traces his fingertips over the rounded shell of the human ear. 

Triumph surges through him, more intoxicating than the finest wine. 

Yield, dh'oine.

“Never,” Roche whispers, his mouth brushing Iorveth's.

And then he's bucking up his hips and grasping at Iorveth's arm. One forceful shove, and Iorveth is tumbling back onto the sheets. 

He blinks, disoriented, but Roche is already bearing down on him. Hard fingers cage his wrists in a vice-like grip, preventing both retaliation and escape. Iorveth snarls in protest; before more angry sounds can emerge, however, Roche's lips are on his.

It's faster this time; urgent and hungry, devastating like a sudden, vicious jab of a dagger. No quarter given, just relentless pressure and heat, stripping away all the defences. Roche is crushing his mouth to Iorveth's as if he means to either punish or devour him.

And Iorveth welcomes it. Head spinning, he can only lie there, at Roche's mercy. Some dark, broken part of him imagines that Roche could hold him down like that for a very long time, that he could simply seize him by the hips, suck bruises into the tattooed leaves on Iorveth's collarbone, and … A delicious thrill chases down his spine at the thought, and Iorveth groans, his pride and honour momentarily forgotten.

He rears up, wishing to pay Roche in kind, to taste more of that battle-like frenzy. 

But Roche jerks away. Quickly, he rolls off of Iorveth, gets up, and moves to stand by the open window. There, he braces his palms on the ledge, bows his head, and draws in a deep, shuddering breath.

Silence descends, awkward and oppressive.

“Well,” Roche says, at last, his voice low and raspy. “At least the antidote is working. You're getting your strength back. That's a good sign.”

“And, gods willing, we'll both forget about this night,” he mutters. 

Iorveth stares at him, lingering on the tense set of Roche's shoulders. The thwarted need is still pulsing within, echoing in the thrum of Iorveth's heartbeat. A way out, that's what Roche is offering him. 

Tempting, to pretend that nothing untoward happened. But, even as the drug-induced haze begins to dissipate, even as mortification and regrets start to creep in, along with the bitterness on his tongue, Iorveth refuses to forget.

It's one shameful secret that he intends to keep.


End file.
